


Beer, Bar Food and Boys

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossdressing, Drunken Confessions, Femboy Hooters AU, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, References to Drugs, Undercover Missions, but not for long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24895750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock is sent undercover as a waiter at the new Femboy Hooters. What he expects is an easy, embarrassing mission but the job isn’t nearly as simple as expected. Things get even more complicated as his relationship with Jack starts to shift from teammates to something far more.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Here’s a fic I never thought I’d write but I keep seeing the memes so I decided to indulge. 
> 
> The rules in this story are directly related to the actual rules for Hooters waitresses so next time you go in, recognize how much work those girls go through. 
> 
> Title is a tweak to Hooters 3 Bs (Beer, Bar Food and Breasts)
> 
> Not beta’d 😅

“You’re joking,” Brock let out a bark of exceptionally unamused laughter. 

“Why would I joke about an undercover assignment?” Sitwell’s expression was neutral but Brock could see the mocking laughter in his eyes. “You’re the best fit and we have Rollins to go along. He’ll be your backup and run surveillance.”

“Why can’t I be the backup? Better yet, why don’t you send in the fucking DEA if this a drug front.” Brock bristled. 

“Because you’re the one who Fury heard bitching and moaning about having no missions to do. Maybe learn to keep complaining to yourself,” Sitwell allowed him a smirk just to confirm Brock’s suspicion that he found this assignment especially hilarious. “Wheels up in forty minutes so grab your go bag.”

Brock’s protests bubbled in his chest but the heat of anger and embarrassment left him too tongue tied to express it. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to look at Jack, to have some back up in how ridiculous this all was. That they were professionals. Highly trained special agents, hand selected to work for Shield. 

Jack nudged him, somehow getting Brock to stalk out of the room before he could process his rage and ream out Sitwell for clearly setting this up just to torture him. It wasn’t until they were stepping on the tarmac when he reeled around and jabbed Jack in the chest with his finger. 

“Thanks for having my back there, asshole. What the fuck, Jack?”

Brock’s second in command shrugged his shoulders dismissively which had the heat of indignation bubbling up in his chest all over again. “I don’t question orders. If they assigned us, it’s for a reason.”

“Yeah, Sitwell wants to fuck me over.”

Jack sighed quietly stepping around him. “Not everyone is out to get you, Brock. The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

Brock gaped before he huffed out a breath and stormed up the ramp. Fuck Shield, fuck Sitwell and fuck Jack for not having his back. He’d get Sitwell back, he was going to make a fucking point to. He’d regret getting Brock assigned to a drug bust at fucking Femboy Hooters where he was suspected to inflitrate as a goddamn waiter. 

At the hotel, the items and instructions found made him even more furious. “They can fuck themselves if they think I’m gonna wear this.”

“You’re gonna wear it.” Jack was already fiddling with the surveillance tech, laptop resting on his knee as he peered into a fish eye lense. 

Brock held up the first of the offending clothing in the mobile dresser. The shirts — no, they weren’t shirts because a shirt didn’t get cut off halfway through — were the iconic shade of orange. The Hooters logo was the same but above it, intentionally crooked and powder blue had ‘femboy’ scrawled on it. It seemed to have two designs; one was a cut off tank top and the other was a regular tee (minus the very important fact it was a crop top). The selection of bottoms were equally distressing for Brock. Shorts that were so short Brock had no idea how he was expected to cram his dick and balls into something so scanty and a skirt that was a bit longer than the shorts but it’d be a cold day in hell before Brock willingly put that on.

There was a second set of shorts and cropped tee in black.

“It isn’t fair that I have to do this.” Brock shifted his attention to hair remover that was tucked into a bag full of make up which better be fucking optional because Brock Rumlow does not wear makeup. 

“You have the ideal body type,” Jack was coding something, fingers a blur across the keyboard.

“Excuse the fuck outta you,” Brock reeled around, clenching the uniform in his fist. “I am not a femboy.”

“I didn’t say you were. I just said you have the right body type for it.”

Brock was offended regardless as he snatched up the workplace requirements. It wasn’t his first undercover job. His last one he had been a bartender to get information on a terrorist cell operating out of the back. That was a Shield job. Some new kind of drug definitely wasn’t.

The list of expectations were ridiculous. Always be smiling, play the part of a ‘boy next door’, no visible body hair, pantyhose under the shorts (which, Brock found slight relief in even if he still hated it with a passion). No tattoos which was easy because Shield had the same exact rule. Brock never expected to compare working for Shield to a wait staff job at fucking Hooters. 

He had to wear white high top sneakers with white socks. His hair always had be done well which, Brock would have no issue with because his hair was always on fucking point. And…

“No fucking way. No, we’re calling it off. I’m done.” Brock snapped, reaching for his go bag. 

Jack beat it to him, shoving it behind his back and setting the laptop aside in one fluent movement. When Brock tried to reach around him, Jack shouldered him away and held him at an arms length with a hand in the center of his chest. 

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Jack rolled his eyes as if this was somehow harder on him than it was for Brock was required to wear fucking make up every shift. “You don’t just walk out of an op, even if you thinks it’s below you.”

“I don’t think it’s below me, I know it is.”

“Are you really that insecure about yourself as a man that you can’t handle a few weeks undercover?” Jack’s voice was just the right amount of teasing to make Brock’s blood boil and also to prove him wrong.

“That’s not it at all and you know that,” grit Brock, hands squeezing into fists.

He wanted to swing at Jack, to release a bit of tension and vent his fury. But admittedly Jack was there. He hadn’t complained when he had to infiltrate a dog fighting ring and watch innocent animals die until all the bastards were arrested. He hadn’t complained when he had to work in a slaughterhouse. This wasn’t the same kind of dirty job, it was a matter of pride and Brock knew, with a heavy heart, that he wouldn’t actually walk away from his assignment, even if he really really wanted to because Jack had never walked away from him.

“Please tell you know how much this sucks.” Brock’s shoulders sagged in defeat, hazel eyes pleading.

Jack shrugged, dropping his hand and going back to his laptop. “I think it won’t be as horrible as you think it will.”

Brock scoffed and sulked back to where he’d thrown down the papers. Makeup was expected to be camera ready and Brock could only pray that no one took any photos. There weren't any rigid expectations which gave Brock the freedom to be as minimal as possible which he was already intending to do. 

The rest wasn’t really jarring but it was disheartening. He’d have to get a manicure for the first time in his life, deal with the fact that people would be ogling him. He found comfort in the fact that patrons weren’t actually allowed to touch him but that didn’t fully abate the heavy dread in his gut. 

He flopped back onto his bed, grabbing a pillow that he shoved over his face and let out a furious shout. It was self soothing, if only for the moment. Sitting up with a sigh he grabbed the bottle and looked at Jack. “You gotta go before I put this shit on?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

Brock hesitated in the doorway. “I might uh, need your help.”

“Just give me a shout.” 

Brock wasn’t really that hairy but it was a critical hit to his pride. He took a shower first, trying to wash his embarrassment down the drain. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work. 

Brock spent far too long glaring at the bottle as if it would disappear by will alone and, with a heavy heart, he began to lather up. To be safe he smeared the depilation gel all over his body. Jack had seen Brock naked plenty, it came with the field of life and death missions. 

“You don’t need any on your back.”

“Well put it on just in case,” Brock grumbled, arms crossed petulantly. 

“Whatever you want, boss.”

Brock laughed darkly at that. Commander or not he and Jack were on equal footing more often than not. Sometimes Brock needed to throw his weight around and Jack may have been the only man in the world who tolerated it. But now he didn’t feel like he was the boss in this situation at all. 

Jack’s hand moved in careful circles, gentle, Brock noted. He found himself leaning into the touch before he snapped himself out of him and jerked forward. Jack took his hands back, running them under the tap as he said, “You’re good. Just rinse off. You need to check sizing too.”

Any unsettled feelings from his actions vanished into a pit of annoyance. “Yeah, yeah. Y’know if I didn’t know any better I’d think you like this.”

Jack looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Who says I don’t?” 

Brock began to over think those words wondering if maybe… 

“Who doesn’t want to see their boss taken down a few pegs?” 

Color crept his neck into his cheeks. From the idea of wearing the uniform of course and certainly not because of what he had thought Jack had meant. Shaking it off, he grabbed a towel, wiping dry and wrapping it around his waist. 

Jack had finished whatever it was he had been working on and was lying across the bed, an arm tucked his eyes watching baseball. Brock’s face scrunched up as he passed the screen. Only Jack could enjoy a game as dull as baseball. 

He glared at the clothing hung there, especially placed beside the plain black tee Jack would wear. With a heaving sigh he picked up the pack of pantyhose which, according to the packaging, was the shade Suntan, whatever the fuck that means. They were irritating to put on, catching on every droplet of moisture on his skin. Five minutes (and a lot of cursing) later, Brock was wearing pantyhose. 

His cheeks were tinged pink already as he reached for the shorts. The pantyhose helped keep everything...contained, but Jesus H, he looked… There weren’t words, there wasn’t even anything to compare it to. Well, maybe boxer briefs but this was too different. Brock twisted around a bit, cringing at his thighs and ass. 

Old girlfriends had teased that Brock had a nice ass but he’d always brushed it off. 

Now...not so much. “Look at that,” Jack snickered from his spot on the bed. “You’re gonna fit right in Rums. A big ass is the point, right?”

“Watch it,” Brock snapped, more defensive than angry. “I can still kick your ass.”

Jack grinned unabashed and mock saluted him. “Yes sir.”

Brock frowned at his reflection, hoping it was just the mirror making his thighs look so thick and his hips that shapely. Tugging on the tee just made him more distressed. He was expected to look like this in public? 

Jack’s wolf whistle earned him a glare. He was happy to strip it all off, even though he still had to make sure the slouch socks were the right size. To his dismay, they were and so were the white sneakers which were the most tolerable part. 

The second try-on proved to be even worse. A pleated skirt with white thigh highs. 

Whoever was in charge of costumes at Shield was far too good at their job. 

“I don’t really have to wear this, right?” Brock asked, exasperated.

“Skirt Saturdays,” Jack offered a cheeky smile. 

Brock looked skyward and wondered if there was a God and if so, what he had done to offend them. 

“Fuckin’ great.” Brock was glad to put it all back and be dressed in his normal clothing. His next task was to tackle to make up and figure out what was needed. “You ever put makeup on?” 

“Blush for the nativity play when I was six,” Jack replied. 

Brock sighed, pouring the contents onto the bedspread in front of him. He knew this would be a new kind of disaster.

•• •• •• ••

Brock stepped out of the rental car, a gaudy purple Toyota Yaris. He had a duffel bag thrown over this shoulder and the smile they expected of him on his face. He had practiced so long his cheeks were cramping before Jack told him that he’d nailed it.

Jack wouldn’t be introduced to the staff for a week. Coming in at the same time would be suspicious. 

He stared at the building for a minute, at the bubble letters above the Hooters logo. Only in New York, he thought with a small head shake. With one last deep breath he walked in.

He was met with a blast of cooled air and a sign that boasted the 3 Bs: beer, bar food and boys. 

Brock began to reconsider working for Shield if it meant this. 

It was far busier than expected, men and women filling the boothes and the waiters strutting between tables with the same big smile Brock had. Most had elaborate eyeliner that Brock had seen a few girlfriends draw on their face. That was a misstep Brock hadn’t expected. 

“Matthew?”

His attention was grabbed by a waiter with curly red hair and a scatter of freckles across his nose. A heart was drawn under his eye in eyeliner, it seemed and his lips were glossed with shiny pink gloss. 

“Yeah-yes,” Brock had practiced his softened voice and Jack had said he sounded just right. “You’re Jessie?”

“Mmhm!” Jessie was just as perky as Brock had hoped he wouldn’t be. “So I hear you impressed the manager at the Hooters in Trenton so much you got hired on the spot!”

Brock did his best bashful nod and it seemed to tide over well. 

“I couldn’t turn down the opportunity.” 

The briefing he’d read during the plane ride said that they were a very tight community and if Brock was going to get in on that he’d have to assimilate. And that meant being enthusiastic about having the ‘privilege’ to work in such an establishment. 

Jessie’s smile was toothy and sincere. As Brock swept his eyes around the interior he saw no hint, no suggestion that it could be the front for a major drug operation. 

“Okay!” Jessie clapped his hands together, nearly startling Brock. “I’ll bring you to the dressing room and we’ll make sure you’ve got dress code down! You were sent it, right?”

“Yes.” Brock held up the bag, smile still plastered on. It was hard to think that this was the easy part. 

“Perfect! Follow me.”

Jessie had a sway to his hips that Brock knew he’d have to get down. The idea of practicing it here and back at the shared hotel room was depressing but he was here to do a job so all he really could do, was complete it.

They walked past a bar, the bartender wearing a bright green top. 

“That’s Paris. He gets to wear that because it’s his birthday and as long as it meets the general dress code, we let it slide.” Jessie explained. 

They passed the kitchen, a long panel window where food came out and tickets went in. “I’ll give the formal tour after we make sure you’re ready for the floor,” Jessie said, glancing over his shoulder towards Brock.

Brock offered his most earnest nod but he was busy mapping exits, just in case. The dressing room had another waiter in it, kicking back with his feet propped up on what looked like a makeup counter, ankles crossed, scrolling on his phone. 

“Feet off, people put their lashes on that, Isaac, gross.” Jessie chatised. 

Isaac, a very petite looking man with almond shaped eyes obeyed with a very insincere apology that Jessie rolled his eyes at but didn’t address. 

“Okay! Get dressed and I’ll be back in just one minute okay?” 

Brock nodded and Jessie hurried out, no doubt to check that everything on the floor was okay. Brock glanced around for a spot to change but the only door he saw was a bathroom sign. 

“Hi, ummm, do I change here?” 

“It’s a dressing room so duh,” Isaac replied, leaning back and replacing his feet. 

The response didn’t bit at Brock because he was intrigued by Isaac. He hadn’t met many of the staff but already he was acting differently than what the briefing had said was normal. It was way too soon to start suspecting anyone but Brock filed away the name as he got dressed. As he was pulling on the shirt he caught Isaac’s eyes which were sweeping up and down his body. 

“Most of the guys here keep themselves toned but not like that.” He nodded at Brock’s abs. “You work out, clearly. You look good.”

“Thank you?” Brock knew he should have sounded delighted but the way Isaac was looking at him was hungry, like he was devouring Brock was with his eyes. Like it wasn’t meant to flatter him.

Isaac took his feet down seconds before the door swung open. Jessie looked a bit overwhelmed and looked at Isaac expectantly. “You’re supposed to be on the floor right now.”

“Sorry, helping the newbie.” Isaac winked and Brock noticed his eyes were gray.

“Well thank you and please go to table seven. Marcus needs his break.” 

It was strange how such a soft sweet tone of voice could hold any authority but it did. The type of authority here was imperative to understand. Who answered to who would lead to the top and, should everything go accordingly, to their kingpin. But for now he was being scrutinized, Jessie circling him as he completed his inspection. The chipper smile let Brock know he’d passed. 

“Wow with abs like that no wonder you got hired on the spot! That’s my dream, right there but man, have you tried mozzarella sticks?” 

Brock shared a short laugh with Jessie which seemed like a good ice breaker because they began the tour. He had already studied the blueprints but seeing it in person was a good way to find any discrepancies. The security office was right off from the kitchen and Jessie assured him that it was simply a deterrent for asshole patrons and, if it came down to it, they could throw them out.

“Okay, so, when you’re waiting tables there’ll be the kinda guests who think that they’re allowed to touch you.” Jessie’s voice deepened a bit with seriousness. “Never be afraid to tell someone but… Okay, I totally shouldn’t be saying this but they tip so much more if you let them. Usually I’ll let it slide as long as they don’t get too grope-y or forceful.”

Which meant that Brock was going to have to tolerate it. No sane waiter, making a measly six bucks an hour, would turn down any tip. 

Jessie brightened up when he introduced Brock to the kitchen staff, who were all unassuming thus far. But that was Jack’s field. He’d be getting to know the in and outs of the kitchen, security and the cleaning staff. Back to the welcoming podium Jessie grabbed something and held it behind his back. 

“Okay, ready?”

Brock had no idea but his instincts had him itching to grab a gun that wasn’t there. There was absolutely no way to hide a weapon in this uniform. So, with a nervous swallow, he nodded.

Jessie held out…a pouch. “Ta-da! This is a right of passage, the step into really being a femboy here at Hooters.” 

A week ago Brock would have laughed at concept but now… Now he smiled and bounced on the balls of his feet a bit to really sell it. He reached for it but Jessie pulled back, wagging a finger at him. 

“Nah-uh-uh Matthew, there’s still expectations with it.” Jessie chatised. “This has to be worn around your hips — not your waist! — and you tie it like a belt. It is not allowed to sag so if it starts getting heavy, take out whatever is weighing it down. It should never be longer than your shorts.”

Brock nodded his head and Jessie finally released the pouch to him. It didn’t feel like an honor, it felt like a pouch. But maybe Brock was being cynical. 

He was finally leading Brock towards the dining area where patrons would actually see him when he spun around so quickly, Brock nearly fell back into a fighting stance. “Oh my god, I totally forgot to give you your name tag!”

He ran back to the podium and came back with the magnetic tag. “Alrighty, quick rundown of rules which I’m sure you already know. Nails, nude or french tip. Hair, always done which you’ve got down. We do like to dress it up with a little make up. You’ve got an okay base but it needs work. I won’t put a strike against you for that today but tomorrow I want to be wowed, alright? Don’t touch the guests — but remember what I said. There is an ideal body type we have here, not that you have anything to worry about but we like for our femboys to keep it in mind, y’know? I need to remind myself every day!”

They shared another laugh, this one less polite and more warm. Brock needed to get into Jessie’s favor and so far it was going swimmingly. 

“Always sneakers and slouch socks, except for Saturday which is skirt Saturday and you should be wearing the white thigh highs. Pantyhose, suntan, which you’ve got. I’d invest in more than a few pairs, personally. In case a spill happens at work. No hair up, always down. On Fridays we wear black! If you wear your uniform outside of this building, you will be fired immediately.” Jessie’s face turned dead serious at that and Brock’s blink of surprise was genuine. 

“This uniform is sacred and it’s a privilege to have and wear it.” Jessie continued before his smile was back and he was onto the next rule. “When we have couples come in, we sit next to women. It’s a good ice breaker and makes them less defensive, you know? Tells them that no, we aren’t looking to steal your boyfriend honey. When we have two guys come in, just go with your gut. Usually one will be a lot less thrilled and we want them both to be thrilled so really put in that effort! Plus we can be intimidating for dining femboys so be extra nice to them so they don’t feel that way.”

These were rules that would have been helpful to share in the briefing. Brock should have been focused on taking in the atmosphere, looking for something off but now he was grappling with remembering all these rules. 

And, fuck, Jessie wasn’t done. 

“We can eat for free — as long as it’s healthy. So if you’re looking for a burger mid shift you have to pay half price for it. But the salads are free!” Jessie sucked in a breath. “And, no cellphones on the floor. I think that covers it. Here you go.”

Jessie took it upon himself to place the name tag over his left pec. “And that’s where that goes! Let’s get you trained, hm?”

•• •• •• ••

When Brock walked into the hotel room he dropped the duffel bag on the floor, shuffled to his bed and flopped face down on it.

Jack was kind enough to give him the necessary silence before Brock rolled over and began to bitch.

“Holy shit the fucking rules! I-I can’t even begin to talk about ridiculous it is. Fuckin’ Shield has less requirements than this place! Four different people grabbed my ass, Rollins. Only one of them was a chick!” 

Jack listened to the venting, quiet and pensive, just absorbing the rant as he mulled it over. And when Brock was finally finished he said, “I wonder if things are this strict at normal Hooters. Makes you think, huh?”

Brock groaned and got his feet retrieving the bag of cosmetics. “Oh and my makeup wasn’t up to par. Jesus, this place is like-like Stepford Wives or something.”

“I said that it was a little plain,” Jack reminded him, reaching for the book of take out places. “What are you in the mood for?”

“A fucking salad, I guess.” Brock snapped open a compact mirror. “I’m going to get a strike against me if I don’t ‘wow’ the manager. How fucked is that?”

“Sounds like a rule that goes with working some place where your body is on display.”

Brock scoffed. “Everyone of the waiters had these, these swoops things off their eyelids and fake lashes.”

“Your problem?” Jack was still leafing through the options. 

“My problem is that I have no fucking idea what I’m doing.”

“So do what everyone else does when they need to learn something. Look up tutorials on YouTube.”

Brock sighed in defeat. 

•• •• •• ••

“Oh my wow Matthew! I was a little worried when I saw you yesterday but you sure proved me wrong!”

Brock felt absolutely ridiculous. It had taken the help of Jack to get the damn lashes glued to eyelids which were painted generously with liner that curved into what was apparently called a ‘wing’ which Brock thought made zero sense. But six hours of YouTube had made him semi literate in makeup jargon. 

“Magnetic lashes,” Brock boasted because YouTube suggested they were fancy. 

Randi, who Brock had shadowed briefly when Jessie was busy, hastened over to peer at them. “Are they worth it? Like legit, legit.”

“They’re amazing compared to that awful lash glue,” Brock said and he meant it.

He and Jack had fussed with it for an hour and half before they said fuck it and went to the nearest Ulta in search of the magnetic lashes. Randi hummed and looked towards Hunter, who had come to listen. Brock realized that make up was a good way into the group, though it pained him to accept it.

“I’m looking at the blush on the tip of the nose. Super cute.”

Regardless of the topic, it was nice to showered in compliments. It hadn’t been easy either so their appreciation was very well received. “Okay, okay,” Jessie said, “Matthew has more training to do, so go back to work.”

Brock had almost perfected the walk, according to Jessie who maintained that it was best to learn on the floor, waiting on guests. There was a way to hold the serving trays too but Brock got that down easy. It wasn’t as busy so he had more time to talk to the other waiters. Isaac continued to stand out but Brock hadn’t reached the groups comfort level enough to initiate gossip. He’d be tossed aside a drama maker which would ruin this op. 

He was touching up his makeup in the dressing room when he met Paris formally. He strutted in the room, confidence emanating from him. He was wearing a normal outfit, a fabric flower hairpiece settled between honey blond locks. If any of the waiters were the model image of the establishment it would have been him. 

“You are?” 

He paused behind Brock, fair blue eyes narrowed just enough to put Brock at guard. 

“Matthew,” he chirped, turning around. “Pleasure to meet you.”

He extended a hand and Paris turned his nose up at it. Brock’s impression quickly changed; Paris was an ass. “I’m sure it is,” he set down his bag and began to strip down, exposing perfect, unblemished skin. 

Brock turned back to touch up, watching Paris in the reflection. He didn’t linger, walking out the same he walked in. Brock had two people to keep an eye on now, with vastly different personalities. 

Brock was growing impatient for Jack’s arrival. It would be loads easier to have evening debriefs verses trying to squeeze it in between tutorials, practicing and doing home workouts because god forbid he get out of shape. Brock had expected the role to be embarrassing but easy and now it was hard to have time to be embarrassed as he desperately tried to adapt to a full change of personality.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock gets a lead...and drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who is reading this ridiculous story. It is so fun to write. ❤️
> 
> Appletinis are real and you need to try one (as long as you can legally drink) 
> 
> not beta’d all mistakes are mine.

Never in Brock’s life did he expect any of this but more than that, he hadn’t expected to wear a skirt. And yet here he was in a pleated high waisted skirt about to learn the proper twirl for walking away from tables. 

“It shows enough, but too much,” Jessie explained as he critiqued his twirl until Brock finally got it.

The movement was vastly different from the kind of turn you made to step around an enemy or unarm someone. It made sense of course but muscle memory was difficult to break and well, Brock was a far cry from graceful. Although as he twirled and the skirt picked up just enough to flash a peek at his ass and the outline of his well contained package. 

It did pay off, literally. Tips were generous. Usually he walked away sixty to eighty bucks a night but he already had a hundred by dinner time. He didn’t see much of Jack but that was expected. He had his own training to do. It pained him to admit that working there was...fun. It was an easy going atmosphere, although a bit over sexualized but that came with the territory. He was making good money too. The upside to missions like that was that he could keep every cent he earned on top of his Shield pay. 

Jack finally came to work on Brock’s second skirt Saturday which was just salt on the wound. Jack looked far too good in the security shirt. It was tight in all the right places, spread across his chest and around his biceps, accentuating muscle that Brock had never really noticed before. 

“See the new security guy?” Hunter whispered when they ran into each other hanging up orders for the kitchen. 

“Uh, yeah.” 

Brock felt stupid for not expecting this. Jack wasn’t a bad looking guy, of course other people were going to notice. Still, the idea of people ogling his second in command didn’t sit well with him. 

“I don’t think I’d mind if he manhandled me a bit.”

At least Brock was the only person there who could say that he had been. Nodding in agreement, Brock took the long way back to the dining area. He could see Jack milling around with the bouncer training him, their conversation seemed easy; Jack’s shoulders were slack, his smile genuine. 

“New eye candy is always fun.”

Brock jumped a bit as he turned towards the bar. Paris was leaning against the bar sink, eyes on Jack as well. It shouldn’t have made Brock so defensive but it did. They were pretty dead which Brock had found was the norm for Wednesdays. There were only four tables and somehow it made the hours drag. 

“I don’t know if I’d call him eye candy,” Brock hedged carefully.

Paris scoffed. “I’d call him daddy if I got the chance.”

Brock’s smile twitched. It wasn’t weird to be upset about this, Jack was supposed to be undercover, he wasn’t meant to draw too much attention. That was definitely why it bothered him.

“I guess he’s just not my type,” Brock said dismissively. 

He was about to check on his table but Paris wasn’t done. “And what is your type, might I ask?” 

“Oh, you know,” Brock’s mind reeled. “N-nice guys.”

Paris stared at him and Brock feared he’d misstepped too far to salvage things with the bartender. 

“I’m a sucker for the bad boys. No doubt the reason I’m chronically single. You?”

This was the most personal talk he’d had and that was a very, very good thing. 

“Same,” Brock sighed with what he hoped was enough wistfulness. “One day though, right?”

“We can only hope. What’s your name again?” Paris leaned forward. “Matthew. How long have you been here now?”

“A little over two weeks.”

“Jessie seems to like you but you don’t seem like the other kiss asses.”

This was it, this was Brock’s chance to get in with a social group. “Oh god no, not me. I mean he’s nice and all but he’s a little…”

“Fake?” Paris offered immediately. “A complete whiny bitch who definitely sucked his way into his manager position?”

Jesus. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Paris smiled, a real smile that was actually friendly. “We go for drinks sometimes, after work. This little club on Melbourne. You wanna come with?”

“Absolutely.”

“We’ll meet you in the parking lot.” Paris tilted his head to the side. “That blush is way too light on you.”

Never in his life had he expected to actually be worried about that. Brock’s eyes widened, fingers rising to carefully touch his cheeks. He couldn’t be attracting extra attention and strikes sounded like a one way street towards that.

“Really? Am I going to get a strike?”

Paris laughed. “Oh please. First of all, strikes are bullshit and you’re hot so they won’t fire you. Secondly, Jessie has zero taste and horrible make up skills.”

That erased any doubts that Paris was anti-Jessie. Brock laughed, exactly as he was supposed to. When he walked away to check his table, the sway of his hips was one of success and pride. 

It started to get easier to sort out cliques within the staff. Hunter, a part timer in college named Landon, and Randi tended to cluster together around Jessie while counting tips and preparing to leave. Brock was there as default because he was still technically in training. 

Paris seemed to have his own people, the waiters who usually gave Brock scorning looks when he did something wrong. It was obvious that they considered themselves the elite. 

He sent a quick text to Jack letting him know that he wouldn’t be following him back to the hotel. In return he got a very Jack-like ‘10-4’. 

It was strange to be accompanied on the walk to his car, Paris scrutinizing the car. 

“I didn’t take you for a purple kind of guy,” Paris leaned down to look inside. “Oh good, you’re not one of the gross people who leave trash in their car.”

“I thought it was cute.” Brock offered feebly. 

“It is.” Paris looked at his reflection for a moment, pursing his lips and adjusting the sunglasses perched in his hair before he straightened up. He turned around and looked at the two others waiting expectantly. “Do you know Matthew?”

“No,” the one nearest him said. Brock recognized him and thought his name was Kyle. “I’m Dylan.”

Ah. Dylan. He was easy to remember because he was the only one with his nose pierced. 

“Nice to meet you.” 

“Quinn,” the other guy said, pulling the pod out of his Juul and giving it a shake. “Nice to see you crawled out from under Jessie’s thumb.”

Brock almost felt bad. Jessie was pretty nice after all but niceness only got you so far in the world. “I just don’t want to get fired.” 

Dylan laughed. “Please! The way you fill out those shorts? Uh-uh. Jessie is just a nazi about the rules with nothing to back it up.”

“Nothing?” Brock asked carefully, turning to check his own reflection so he could keep watch of Quinn.

Dylan had turned his head toward him with a wide eyed look of warning. Brock cursed internally but turned around with a smile. 

“Well, you know.” Quinn tucked the front of his baggy sweater into the waistband of his jeans. “Drinks right? I could use about four after that boring fucking shift.”

“Same. I’ll text you the address,” Paris said, twirling the keys to a Volkswagen around his index finger. “Also, your phone case? Ugly af.”

Brock pulled it out of his back pocket. It was a simple gray case that he’d overlooked. “I know, I have to buy a new one.”

“I’ll say.” Paris said starting toward the yellow Bug. “Let’s go before all the hotties are gone.”

•• •• •• ••

The bar location wasn’t at all what Brock was expecting. It was tucked back away from the main road, a neon sign was situated over the doors reading Club 9 which Brock figured was more of a trendy name than an actual chain. The parking lot was crowded and cramped so Brock had to ease into a parking spot and hope that it didn’t get dinged up too bad. 

He pulled down the mirror, checking his hair before he eased the door open and squeezed between vehicles toward the entrance. The bouncer nodded him through without even blinking at his appearance (a pastel purple tee and dark washed jeans and, y’know, makeup). 

The bar was dark and smoky with low crooning music and a pulsating beat Brock could feel in his bones. It was just as crowded as expected, and Brock tried to find a face he recognized in the mass. 

“Mattie!” 

Brock hated the fact that he responded to that nickname. It was Quinn beckoning him to the bar and Brock dodged and weaved between people as he approached the bit of bar they had claimed. They already had drinks, colorful drinks that Brock had absolutely no understanding of. When he went to bars it was there for beer and, if things were especially grim, whiskey. 

“You didn’t puss out.”

“Uh, nope.” Was Brock supposed to? “What are you guys drinking?”

Paris pushed an electric blue drink in a flute towards him. “It’s the house special.”

Brock brought it to his lips, and downed in one swallow. The group shared a laugh that immediately made Brock uneasy. “You didn’t drug me or anything right?” 

Paris rolled his eyes flagging down the bartender with a casual wave. “Only if you consider high quality liquor as a drug. Which you just took like a fucking shot, by the way. Impressive.”

“You know,” Dylan said, taking the speared olive he was sucking on out of his mouth. “Alcohol is a drug.”

“No isn’t, shut up.” Quinn had a margarita in front of him, phone in hand as usual. 

“No, for real, for real. You know when I got sent to rehab because I had Adderalls, I brought some vodka in my water bottle, like no big deal, you know? And the lady popped off. She said that it was a drug. And she’s, like, a professional.”

“Listening to you two talk might actually kill my brain cells.” Paris cut in, long fingers wrapping around his empty glass as the bartender finally made it over. “Two Long Island iced teas, no Coke or ice.”

The bartender nodded turning away to prepare the drinks. 

“So,” Paris drawled. “What were you doing before this?”

“This and that.” Brock had an answer for this, already included in the briefing was Matthew’s past. ”Worked at Starbucks for a few years, waited at some little cafes in Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn is gross,” Quinn’s nose crinkled up before he took a sip of his drink.

Brock tried not to be offended. He’d grown up there and it was home for better or worse. 

“I hear it’s up and coming. Jackson’s parents just bought the cutest brownstone for Polly — that’s my sister— and him.” Dylan argued. 

Quinn made noncommittal noise. 

“This job is easy but the pay can suck,” Paris sighed. “Bartending has its perks, I don’t get waiter pay but still.”

Brock did a quick scan of him. The sunglasses were Ray-Bans for sure, not a cheap knock off. Someone on a bartending income couldn’t afford that. But it sounded like Dylan came from money so maybe Paris did. 

“Do your parents help at all?”

Paris laughed, a loud laugh that drew people’s eyes. He wasn’t bashful at all, even in public. 

“Do yours?” Paris countered.

Brock shook his head. “They didn’t exactly...agree with my life choices.”

That was close to the actual truth for Brock but he didn’t linger on that. 

“Well we have that in common.” Paris sipped his drink. 

“So how do you afford stuff?” Brock lowered his voice in an attempt to be polite.

Paris leveled a look at him. For a long time. For too long. “Maybe when I know you a little better I’ll divulge all my dirty little secrets.”

It was a lead, but one Brock was clearly going to have to work for. 

•• •• •• •• 

“Are you drunk?”

“Just a little,” Brock grunted, kicking off his far too tight jeans as he fell into the bed. 

The ceiling swirled in a sickening way. Jack sighed heavily to his left and helped Brock out of the tangle of his clothes. Jack slipped on a pair of sweats, warm and loose which was a welcome change from the tight clothing he’d been wearing.

Brock’s eyes cracked open as he felt a tug on his eyelids. Jack peeled off the lashes then took a makeup wipe from the nightstand. He held it in his fist a moment before he touched it to Brock’s cheek. He made soothing circles on his face with the warm wipe, carefully wiping any trace off his face. 

Brock peered at Jack who had the look of determination and focus he had when he was unarming a bomb. 

“You don’t gotta do this, y’know.” Brock mumbled but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the feeling.

“Shield is going to be pissed if they get billed for ruined pillowcases.” Jack replied. “Should I even bother asking you if you learned anything.”

“Mmm well appletinis are fucking amazing,” Brock replied. “And I think Paris is dealing but I don’t think he’s the source.”

“You drank an appletini? Mr. Lite Beer Is for Women? Good God what have they done to you?”

Brock laughed. “I don’t even fucking know, Jackie. But wanna know something really fucked? I don’t hate it. I don’t like it but… S’not so bad, really.”

Jack gave him a rare smile, one that was warm and so sweet and caring. The kind of smile usually reserved for when he saved Brock’s life. 

“They think you’re hot.” Brock blurted. “They wanna get manhandled by you. Well, Hunter does. Little does he know that I have been, so there.” 

Jack chuckled. “If you call sparring manhandling, then you’re right.”

“You don’t think they’re hot though right?” Brock asked, pulse suddenly racing.

“The other waiters? No.” 

“Does that mean you think I am? I don’t blame ya, I’ve been told I fill out those shorts nicely. I’ve had more than one guest try to cop a feel.”

“They touched you?” The smile was gone in an instant, quiet anger burning in Jack’s eyes.

“Mmm, don’t worry about it,” Brock flopped his hand dismissively. “Jessie says… Jessie says that they give extra tips — and they do — so what waiter would say no to that.”

Jack didn’t look at all swayed. His lips were set in a hard line. 

“Well, I’m there now.” Jack said shortly before he began to wipe the gloss off Brock’s lips.

Brock's eyes wandered across the ceiling and then back to Jack’s face and the scar carved into the skin from his lip and chin. “They gotta point.” 

“A point? About letting those...those fucking creeps touch you?” Jack asked, voice low but tense with anger.

“No,” Brock drawled with an eyeroll. “That you‘re hot. I mean, look at you! You got that tall dark and handsome thing going. But like, I could murder you if I want kinda vibe. That’s hot.”

“Being able to murder you is your standard of hot?”

“Mmm,” Brock said with a nod. He rolled over, suddenly feeling a bit sick. “Ugh, I’m gonna puke.”

Jack brought the trash bin around and sat on the edge of the bed, hand running in soothing circles. Brock laid there, nausea churning in his gut, peaking and dulling. “Breath,” Jack coached.

Brock took a deep breath and the feeling dulled down again. 

“You always have the answers.” Brock grumbled. “Drives me crazy.”

“I only have the answers when you don’t. You’re the commander after all.”

Brock scoffed. “Fuck what they call us. Pretty sure you’re in charge most of the time. I’d be fucked without.”

“I would be equally fucked,” Jack replied but Brock laughed at that.

“No, you’ve always…you’re always so perfect. I dunno what I’d do with my Jackie.”

Jack’s hand stilled a moment and he shifted the trash bin away with his foot. “You need to sleep this off. You have to be in at ten tomorrow.”

“See? Always right.” Brock pressed his face into the pillow. “‘night Jackie.”

“Good night Brock,” Jack said softly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All their hard work pays off in an unexpected way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Sorry for the wait. I hope you guys like it.
> 
> tw: aphrodisiac/drugged sex (with consent)

Jack woke up Brock the next morning with a bag of McDonalds. 

He blinked blearily at him before the headache hit him full force and he collapsed back in the bed. “Fuckin’ Christ.” he moaned.

“Eat, the grease’ll soak up the booze.”

Brock groped around the bag, fingers brushing against the crispy outside of a hash brown. He shifted up to rest heavily against the wall and shoved it into his mouth. 

“I can’t remember anything.” Brock squinted at the low lamp lighting. He checked the clock impulsively but it was only eight thirty. “Please tell me we are least debriefed.”

“Yeah. You think Paris is dealing.”

“Paris?” Brock tried to remember. He recalled his face and the sweet drinks they’d had. “God my head. You know how long it’s been since I got black out drunk?”

He looked at Jack who shrugged, not looking very empathetic. That was fair. It was a serious fuck up on his end and he could only hope he hadn’t blown the entire op. 

“You came in a cab.” Jack said. “I grabbed your car from the bar.”

Brock stuffed an egg McMuffin in his mouth in lue of an answer. He’d find out where he stood when he went into work at eleven and until then, he had to try and get over this brutal hangover. Jack went in before him and that was fine. It gave Brock adequate time to stress over his mistakes and remind himself how goddamn stupid he was. 

When he walked in, he was met with smiles however. “There he is,” Paris leaned across the bar. “Y’know not many people can keep up with us.”

Brock smiled indulgently, ignoring the throbbing in his temples. “I’m not many people.”

Confidence seemed key in really getting into the social group and Brock had a feeling that once he was properly inducted he’d have absolutely no problem getting to the dealer. It was Friday which was certainly one of their busier days. 

Brock’s back to back tables helped keep his mind off his headache and he paid half for a burger in an attempt to take the edge off his hangover. He felt strangely guilty for it, eating it quickly in the corner by the bathrooms so no one saw. 

He caught sight of Jack a few times, once in the kitchen chatting with a line cook and once stepping in the security room where the live feeds ran. Mostly Brock tried to focus on the job, trying to remember the night before as he refilled glasses and rattled off the wing special for the day. 

It was getting late in the evening when Brock got hassled for the first time. When he was walking to get the beer the guests had ordered he felt a hand on his ass, pinching his asscheek. Normally he would have brushed it off — extra tips were good — but he was irritable. 

“Hands off,” he snipped before he plastered on the Hooters smile and added, “please.” just as sweetly as he could.

The guy rose his hands up in defeat, offering a very insincere apology while exchanging eye contact with his buddy across the booth. Brock didn’t care, brushing it off as he got the drinks from Paris who was too swamped to really chat. 

When Brock set the beers in front of them and took their order he was hyper aware of the asshole’s eyes on him. In Brock’s field of work body language was everything and everything about this guy was predatory. He’d have no problem putting him down — he was itching to do it as his eyes rested on Brock’s crotch with a lewd smile — but that wasn’t the role he was playing. 

“I’ll get that right in.” Brock said in a very forced chipped tone, eager to get the fuck away from the table.

“Well wait a minute, sweetheart.” His hands went around his waist touching his exposed midsection. “Don’t run off, I got somethin’ special for you.”

Brock’s hand twitched. He wanted to grip him by the back of the neck and slam his face against the table. Then, he would snap his wrist and each finger individually. But he couldn’t and that infuriated him further. He didn’t want to draw attention, he was supposed to be undercover. He tried to twist away with an unamused laugh but the guy held on tighter.

His fingers sunk into his flesh, one hand going up to grab his wrist. “C’mon,” he said. “Just come here for a second, baby. Sit on my lap.”

“Let go of me.” Brock snapped. 

It was a good position to break his elbow. If he had his side arm it would have been one swift motion to press it into the soft spot under his jaw. Brock would have head butted him and then snapped his neck in one motion. 

But he couldn’t.

The pressure increased, definitely going to leave a bruise. “Come on.” The playful edge had hardened into something more malicious. “Don’t be a fuckin’ tease.”

Suddenly there was a much larger hand on his shoulder, yanking him back. 

“I think you should go.” Jack’s voice just shy of a growl, pushing Brock back away from the table. 

“Look, he was coming onto me,” the guy began heatedly.

“I asked you nicely. I won’t do it again.”

The guy scoffed looking to his friend who seemed equally irate at being kicked out. “It was his fault,” he said again. “How about you get a handle on these slutty fucking waiters?”

Brock blinked and Jack had the guy up out of the booth with a hand tangled in front of his shirt. 

“Do you like to be touched without your permission?” 

Brock’s heart raced. This was the opposite of lying low but he couldn’t be angry. If anything he was flattered by Jack’s protectiveness. 

“What the fuck man,” the slimy bastard seemed scared now and Brock was happy for that. He wished he could have been the one to make him squirm, let him know who it was he was fucking with, but could make do with this. 

“L-let go of me.”

“Matthew asked you to let go of him but you didn’t. Why should I?”

Jessie scurried over to watch and the entire dining area was watching in silent awe. “We’re going.” The friend threw down a few bills. “We’re leaving man, promise. He’s sorry.”

“I didn’t hear it from him.” Jack hadn’t broken eye contact, staring down at him with the intensity he used in interrogations. 

“Sorry!” he squawked, hands coming up to push against Jack’s frame. “What the fuck dude?”

Brock could see the other security guy, clearly in the middle of his lunch break by his rapid chewing, heading over. Jack released him and the guy staggered. 

“Everything okay, Eric?”

Jack nodded and took the guy by the upper arm this time, grip far less tight. “Just seeing these two out.”

His coworker nodded, taking the other guy’s arm in a similar hold. Once they’d left the building the other waiters hurried forward. Brock was still trying to process what Jack had done and why, which, thankfully, looked a lot like shock. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Jessie touched his arm gently pulling him back to reality. “You should go take a break to recover.”

“Oh,” Brock wasn’t exactly prepared for this situation. “I… Yeah, okay. I’ll go to, erm, Starbucks.” 

“Good idea.” Jessie nodded his head gravely. “You deserve something with whipped cream.” 

“Okay.” Brock didn’t even have to act distrubed by what happened, although his shock wasn’t from the behavior of that asshole, it was the behavior of his SIC. “Uh… I’ll be back.” 

“Only if you’re comfortable.” Jessie said, clearly concerned. 

Brock wasn’t sure why Paris hated him so much, he seemed like a really nice guy. He was still trying to digest Jack’s actions as he sat in a ridiculously long line. They didn’t seem like the actions of an SIC protecting his commander, and more intense than someone protecting their friend but… 

Maybe Brock was reading too far into it. He rattled off his order (grande iced chai double ristretto, two pump vanilla, four packets of agave, poured, not shaken) and sipped on it while sitting idly in traffic. It was taxing to play a role, it was even more taxing when you were doing with someone else. And man was Brock starting to feel drained. 

The coffee was more of an accessory than a drink as Brock entered. It was quieter than when he left and Jack was sitting at the bar. “Hey, you, c’mere.” Paris beckoned him closer and Brock drew in a deep breath before approaching and giving Jack a wide berth. “Let me make you a drink.” 

“I have one.” Brock shook the cup pointedly, the ice rattling against the plastic sides. 

“I have eyes, obviously. A real drink. Jessie doesn’t care, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Paris leered a bit, testing his alliance. 

“I don’t give a shit if he doesn’t,” Brock replied because he had already pinpointed where Jessie was when he entered. 

Paris smiled sweetly, but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable. “Sit.” he ordered.

Brock tried to take the stool furthest from Jack but Paris eyed him and Brock smiled tightly and moved until there was just one between them. Sitting there in silence wasn’t an option. If they were truly strangers Brock should have been groveling. 

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did.” Brock was never one to act demure towards Jack but here he was, tips of his white sneakers touching, hands clasped on his lap and looking at Jack like this was a shitty porn flick. 

“It was, uh, no problem.” Jack didn’t quite look at him and for that Brock was thankful. If he had he probably would have socked him later. “I’ll do it again too.” 

In the corner of his eye he saw Paris pursing his lips. Rumors would certainly be flying now. 

“Thanks.” Brock swallowed back a sudden lump of nervousness. “For, y’know, looking out for me.” 

That one was actually genuine to Brock’s horror. He should have been discouraging such behavior but something about the way Jack had come in, like some sort of knight in shining armor, that had him questioning his feelings towards Jack. He’d had those feelings harbored before hand, an admiration that was creeping towards something new, something scary, and he didn’t expect to address it this soon. 

“You’re welcome.” 

They locked eyes, for an intense moment that made Brock’s heart hammer, until the sound of drinks being set down jolted them out of the fragile moment. 

“My specialty.” 

Brock’s had a straw and Jack’s did not and Brock appreciated it. He didn’t feel like touching up his lipstick after the day he’d had. It was dark in color with a spiral of orange peel peaking over the rim. 

Jack took a healthy swig from the pint glass and pulled back looking pleasantly surprised. “What is this?” 

“Gum and Tonic.” Paris looked awfully pleased at his positive reception and Brock felt irrationally bothered. “Gin, white rum, lime juice shaken over ice. Served with an orange peel. Guaranteed to knock you on your ass if you have two. One will give you a nice buzz to get you through the rest of the night.”

Brock was almost positive that this was very against the rules but refusal would jeopardize his standings with Paris and he couldn’t afford that. They could be wrapping this up in the very near future and Brock was focusing on that. The drink was strong, exactly as expected and it turned Brock’s stomach a bit. After drinking heavily last evening more alcohol was not the best option but Brock still kept sucking it down. The buzz hit in him before he was even done. He felt warm and cozy, a bit sleepy but energetic all at once. He wanted to melt against Jack’s side and breath his cologne and the smell of his skin. His common sense was still there but his ability to school his emotions was affected. 

“Feeling a little better, Matthew?” Paris propped his face on his elbows, smile not quite genuine but still kind. 

“Yeah...yes.” Brock turned his head to see how far gone Jack was but he didn’t seem very affected. 

Right, Jack drank hard liquors recreationally. His ended his evening with Southern Comfort or something of the like that Brock couldn’t stand the smell of, much less the taste. He had a higher alcohol tolerance and that meant Brock was all alone. Which made him a bit sad. 

Jack drained the rest of his drink and slid off the stool. “Thank you for this, Paris. It was great. Matthew. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

And like that he was walking away to deposit his glass in the dish bin. “Look at you, Mr. Moony Eyes.” Paris snickered. “Whatever happened to liking nice guys?” 

Color flushed over Brock’s cheeks but thankfully it wasn’t visible through the blush he had on. “He is a nice guy,” Brock found himself saying. 

He had wanted to insist he wasn’t but instead he had run his mouth. There was no damage control when it came to Paris. He would be grabbing his phone in seconds and blasting it across the entire staff. Brock was an idiot. With a reeling mind and an anxious churning in his gut he tried to finish out the night. He wondered if he could damage control it but everytime someone new sidled up to the bar to whisper with Paris Brock knew it was way too late. 

While counting tips Brock watched the gossiping unfolding. Secretive (and blatantly obvious) circling with hushed voices. Jack was hanging back with his fellow security guard, posture relaxed but Brock knew that he was well aware of what was going on. Brock was still feeling the effect of the drink so, with dragging feet, he approached the two men.

They paused to look at him and Brock found the tips of his sneakers touching once more while a blush crept up his neck. 

“I, um, I’m kinda not able to drive cos of the drink…” 

If he had been sober he would have just texted Jack. 

“I can drive you home.” Jack spoke quickly so his coworker didn’t have the chance to volunteer. “It’s the black Jeep. I’ll be there after we finish closing up.”

The whispering got a bit louder and Brock nodded.

It was the walk through the parking lot when Brock’s suffering finally paid off. 

“Hey, Mattie, wait a second.”

He paused letting Paris catch up. He expected him to demand more information about his feelings towards Jack but his smile was too sly. He felt bad that Jack would have to retrieve his car yet again. 

“Here.”

A dime bag with a single purple tablet in it was pressed into his palm. “What is this?” Brock asked dumbly.

“Your best fucking friend.” Paris' smile was toothy and self indulgent. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Thank you?”

Brock turned the bag around. This was his reason for being here, the reason he was wearing eyeliner and short shorts. 

“Take it.”

The general consensus was that taking drugs was only acceptable if Brock’s life was in danger. But that was the DEAs rule not Shields. And Shield said to do whatever you have to do. 

“Can I get more if I like it?” 

Brock needed to ensure that he had a supply. Then Brock could put this whole day behind him and hole up in his shame. 

Paris laughed. “Just take the pill, Mattie. Here.”

Brock accepted the powder blue HydroFlask and opened the bag. It looked a bit like a Smartie with softened edges. He threw it back and took a gulp of the water. Paris’ grin grew. 

“Have a good night honey. I can’t wait to hear about it tomorrow.”

He took his water bottle back and strutted off towards his car. Brock considered throwing it back up but then Jessie was calling his name. 

“Matthew, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Brock looked wistfully towards the Jeep before turning on heel and going to him. “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re really feeling okay. I can’t even begin to imagine how scary that was — thank goodness you had Eric there to protect you.”

Brock Rumlow wasn’t the kind of man to be protected; he protected others. And just the suggestion he needed to be protected bugged him. But he wasn’t Brock right now, he was Matthew who was intentionally docile so he could be easily swayed into the drug scene. 

“Yeah, I got really lucky he saw. Thank you, by the way. But I’m going to be fine.”

Jessie nodded after looking him over. “Okay well if you feel like you can’t come in tomorrow just call me okay?”

Brock nodded in agreement and Jessie waved in parting and headed across the lot to his own vehicle. Jack was finishing closing up and Brock finally walked to the Jeep. 

•• •• •• ••

They were halfway back to the hotel when Brock mustered the courage to break the silence. 

“Paris gave me a pill. I took it.”

Jack’s head whipped around. “You what?”

Brock rubbed the back of his neck and leaned over to adjust the AC. “I had to get him to trust me.”

“Why wouldn’t you spit it back out later?” Jack sounded angry.

“Because Jessie came over to me.”

“Jesus fucking Christ Brock! That could have been poison — it could still be!”

“I feel fine. It’s just hot in here.”

Jack sighed laboriously and cranked the AC up. “Sure, I don’t mind spending my entire night making sure you’re not dying. No problem. Thanks so fucking much for consulting with me before taking some nameless drug.”

Brock sat back moodily. His skin started to prickle. It was odd that he was still feeling the effects of the drink earlier but he chalked it up to the alcohol still lingering in his system. Still, it was increasingly difficult to remain still. 

He adjusted the air conditioning once and then again when he started to sweat. “Brock, are you okay?”

He could feel perspiration beading on his skin and he looked longingly at the blue dial. It was already ramped up to the max and Brock realized that this, whatever this is, was because of the purple tablet. 

“Just hot.” Brock wasn’t having difficulty breathing, it wasn’t an emergency. He knew his body. 

He shifted and the texture of his shirt felt fucking amazing against his skin. There was no way to describe it, the smallest brush of friction exploded against his skin. Brock was getting hard and it was painfully obvious in joggers he had changed into. Somewhere, deep down, he was embarrassed but fuck it feel amazing to have his clothes touching his skin. The sensation seemed to climb but never could he reach a peak. 

“Brock are you…”

Brock turned his head to see Jack looking at his crotch. He should have been ashamed, should have told Jack to look at the fucking road but… God it would feel so great to have Jack’s hand around his cock. 

“It’s a fucking aphrodisiac.” Brock leaned back with a shuddering breath. “Fuckin’ Christ.”

“Should I call a medevac and bring you to the ED?”

“No.” Brock huffed angrily. “No. I’ll be fine by tomorrow. We’re, uh, we’re so fucking close.”

Jack looked wary still, eyes flickering from the road to him. “Brock…”

“I’m commander here.”

“Don’t pull rank on me Brock. You look like you’re in pain.”

Brock had laughed. “This ain’t pain, pal. This is… Fuck, feels like I could pop off any second.”

“Oh.” As they went under a street light Jack’s face illuminated briefly and his cheeks were flushed. 

And now that Brock was looking at Jack he couldn’t stop. He thought about running his hands through his hair, about kissing his razor sharp jawline, about biting his bottom lip as he got fucked… 

Brock squirmed in place, eyes clenched shut as he tried desperately to find some relief. The brush of fabric was no longer pleasant. It was almost torturous. When the Jeep came to a stop Brock knew what he had to do. 

“I’m gonna need you to get me through this.”

“What?” Jack stared at him. “Brock, this is insane.”

“I need your help, Jack.” Brock grit. “Please. Please Jackie.”

“I…” Jack exhaled heavily. “Fuck!”

“Please.” Brock was never one to beg and yet here he was. “Please Jack.”

“Alright, alright. You better not get pissy about it to me later.”

Brock was still lucid enough to scoff. Somehow he held himself together long enough to get to their room and once there he yanked off every article of clothing. Even the feel of the carpet under his feet was bordering on painful. 

Jack was standing off to the side, the unshakable SIC looking like a teenager who’d just seen his first pair of tits. But that teenager was actually a highly trained agent and those tits were actually his superior. Wasn’t that a fucking joke.

“What do… Where should I touch you?”

“Anywhere.”

Jack shuffled forwards, clearly nervous, and his massive hands settled on his waist, circling the pad of his thumbs. “This is...good?”

The warmth of his hand against Brock’s skin was heavenly. Like he was inches from seeing God but as quickly as it peaked it dulled and the touch was too much, too tight. Brock pushed him away but, oh, touching him felt so nice. Pleasure blossoming across his skin as he shoved his hands under Jack’s shirt. Pressing against him, Brock rubbed his cheek against his chest, fingers pressing into the solid ridges of his midsection. 

“Is this okay?”

Jack had removed his hands, standing like a mannequin while Brock tried to satisfy what it was exactly his body was looking for. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Brock I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Fuck you. I need to be fucked right now, Jack.”

Jack heaved a sigh as if all the suffering was falling on his shoulders. Tomorrow Brock would overthink that but tonight he just needed relief.

•• •• •• ••

Brock’s forehead rested against Jack’s shoulder, nails digging into Jack’s back as he fucked him. Never in Brock’s life had sex felt this fucking phenomenal; each stroke of Jack’s cock inside him was like a thousand orgasms which all blended smoothly into dry orgasms that had Brock’s eyeballs rolling into the back of his head.

“Harder.” Brock begged. “Harder, Jack, please.”

“‘m going as hard as I can go here,” Jack huffed. “Fuck you’re tight.”

Brock pressed their mouths together and Jack kissed him hard, catching his bottom lip between his teeth with a delight sting of pain that made Brock whimper. 

This was their third round. While Jack went through his refractory period he got Brock off skillfully with his long fingers and fucking inhuman tongue. 

“I’m gonna cum,” Jack grunted, pacing increasing as he chased his orgasm. 

The sensation of the cum inside him, something he’d never really noticed before, had turned earth shattering on this drug. Brock hooked his feet around his waist as he came. 

Orgasms took the edge off. It gave him a brief moment of clarity as he rolled over to catch his breath. 

“You think you’re good?”

Brock could still feel the sensations below his skin, temporarily muted and he shook his head. Jack shook his head. “Holy fuck. Why would anyone buy this?”

“I’m sure couples usually buy it together.” Brock grabbed his water and took a swig. 

“Yeah well I feel like you’re about to snap my dick off or something. I don’t know if I can go much longer.”

“It’s calming down.” Brock looked at the clock and sighed heavily. It was almost three am. “Just once more?”

“Don’t talk to me, talk to my dick.” Jack drained his water and then laid back with a huff. “Some shit to be pushing huh? You’d expect it to be a strip club.”

“Too obvious.” The sheets were a rumpled pile between them, the comforter pooled on the floor. “This place is all about subtle sexuality. You come, look at what you can’t touch with your partner, and then go home and fuck until you both can’t stand.”

He turned his head to see Jack staring at him, green eyes wide. 

“What? Do I got your cum on my face or something?” Brock reached up to brush it away but Jack caught his wrist.

“No it’s just… It’s amazing how fast you piece shit like that together.”

Brock snorted but noticed the way Jack was holding his hand now, running his thumb along his knuckles. It felt...intimate. And Brock liked it. He knew this was going to end poorly for the both of them. They had crossed a line that coworkers really shouldn’t. And that fallout would be painful for Brock. But that’s how the cards were going to fall. 

For a while they were quiet and the need started to ramp back up. Brock spent ten minutes trying to get Jack hard, using every trick he had learned from his one night stands. Just when Brock was beginning to feel hopeless, Jack delivered. 

“You’ve been doing all the work, let me ride you.”

Brock didn’t wait for his opinion, popping the top on the lube and slathering his cock in it before he lowered himself down. It was fucking amazing, exactly as expected, and when he settled, he looked down at Jack with hooded eyes. 

Brock set the pace initially, working himself up as he rolled his hips. He had a feeling this would be the last one needed, he didn’t feel so feverishly horny, just an aching need that once filled should be satisfied. Jack ran his hands over Brock’s skin, his chest, his stomach, along his cock. Then his hands settled on Brock’s hips and he began to lend himself into Brock’s pace. 

It wasn’t fucking, Brock thought. This was making love. And that was terrifying.

When they were finished, lying side by side, Brock felt drained and that was a good sign that the effects had run their course. 

“Feeling better?”

Emotion lodged itself in his throat and he had to swallow it down before he said, “Yeah. Thanks for, y’know. I’m going to shower.” 

He didn’t wait for Jack to answer, to remind him that he had done it because he was asked not because he wanted to. He closed the bathroom door and stood under the shower because crying in the shower doesn’t actually count. 

•• •• •• ••

“So what do you think? Like honestly, I won’t be mad if you hurt my feelings.”

Quinn had put heavy pink blush across the bridge of his nose and drawn hearts in white eyeliner. Brock had no idea if that was a good look or not and honestly he had more pressing things to worry about. 

“It’s really cute.”

Quinn beamed. “I know right? Nose art is gonna be huge and I can say I did it first here. Want me to do yours?”

“No, they have to see you rocking it first right?”

“Good point. Hey, how was your night?” Quinn looked around and lowered his voice. “I hear Paris gave you a little something-something to make it more fun.”

Brock didn’t have to fake a blush. “It was, uh, crazy.”

“You’re lucky. I would’ve loved to get a piece of tall, dark and handsome.”

Brock forced a smile. Jack was missing when he woke up, Brock’s car keys were on the side table so he had to have gotten his car and come back. It wasn’t that Brock was even remotely aware of what to say to him but having him missing felt a bit like he was being ghosted. 

Which was stupid because he knew better. 

But he couldn’t drop that fear. 

“Where’s Paris?”

“Oh, running late. I guess the barista fucked up his order. I’d avoid him for a bit. He likes to blow up on people when he has a shit morning.” 

Brock nodded his head, going to get his pouch. He knotted it looking towards the security office. Jack’s Jeep was already there when he arrived. He was able to distract himself with an unusually high early lunch influx but everytime he walked to the bar he stared at the door as if it would open and Jack would be there to tell him that everything was fine and that he didn’t regret what happened last night.

Unsurprisingly it never happened and it weighed him down. 

Paris had appeared between tables but as Quinn had said he looked awfully pissed off. Brock had made a big enough scene yesterday, he wasn’t going to catch everyone’s attention again. But if he could nab Paris as the dealer officially they could be back in their beds tonight and Brock would never, ever look at the Hooters (Femboy or otherwise) the same way. 

He got his chance sooner than expected because Paris grabbed his arm on his way to give the kitchen the order slip. 

“Excuse me, how was last night?”

It was easy to blush and Brock was thankfully for that. 

“Okay you have to tell me. Is his dick big? I feel like his dick is big.”

Brock dunked his head a bit with a bashful smile (the acting was too easy… Was this a genuine reaction?). “It’s big.” 

Jack would probably kill him for saying that but he probably would have been more upset if he said it wasn’t. “That’s some good shit huh?”

“Yes.” This was it, the pivotal conversation. “Do you...have more?”

Paris grinned and leaned in. “Just so happens I do. But they’re gonna cost you.”

Brock could have cried he was so happy. “How much?” 

“Forty per tab.”

“Meet you by your car after work?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

•• •• •• ••

After texting Jack he flicked on the mic on the strap of his Vera Bradley backpack and went to close the deal. He bought the pills and went back to his car where he contained his happiness until he got on the interstate and he punched the steering wheel in excitement. 

Back at the hotel room he was greeted by an unexpected hug. “Nice job Brock.”

Jack withdrew, almost too quickly and went back to the laptop. “Thanks.”

“If you want we can crash here tonight and head back in the morning?”

“Whatever you want.” Brock sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about last night.”

Jack’s typing slowed and he turned around to face Brock. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

Why was Brock beating around the bush? This wasn’t him. This wasn’t them. They were blunt. 

“Do you regret it?”

Jack looked down and Brock’s stomach plummeted. 

“No, I don’t. And I feel guilty because of it.”

“Why do you feel guilty? I was the one asking.” 

“Because it’s something that I’ve wanted for a long time.” Jack’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “And I took advantage of the situation. Of you.”

It took Brock a second to digest it. To unpack that statement and actually process it. 

“I’m sorry.” Jack said softly. “I’m so fucking sorry Brock.”

“Don’t be. I wanted you — I want you. I never thought you’d be interested in me like that.”

Jack snorted. “How could I not be? You’re passionate and you’re loud and you’re not afraid to take what you want.” Jack shook his head. “And you’re kind, even when you like to pretend you aren’t. I like that. I fell in love with that and I don’t think that’s going away. So I understand if you want me to be reassigned when we get back to base.”

“I don’t want you reassigned. You’re my SIC. You’re my Jack. I… I know that last night wasn’t ideal and I may not have been completely lucid but I know how I felt about you before and how I feel about you now.”

Jack met his eyes still seeming wary so Brock crossed the space between them and kissed him hard. 

Somehow it felt even better sober. 

“Please tell me that it’s not the makeup that turned you on,” Brock said as they separated. “Or the skirt.”

Jack laughed. “Not really my thing. But it was funny as hell seeing you in it.”

“Well I hope you got your laughs because I’m never putting any of that shit on again.”

Their foreheads rested against each other. They were quiet for a minute, staring at each other, letting worries rest if only for tonight. This understanding was enough to get them through the rest of his assignment and then they’d have a real conversation; give a name to what had grown between them.

But, for now, everything was fine.


End file.
